erotica

Underground Submission: A Historical Interracial Menage

It was one of those storms that made the floorboards creak in sympathy for the roof and the windows, straining to hold the framework of the house upright against the gales of wind and torrents of rain that pummeled it mercilessly.

“Annemarie?”

I look up from where I’m trying to patch a hole in my husband’s breeches by the flickering candlelight of a tired flame, and see the culprit himself, young, clean shaven, and handsome, come into the room. He drapes one of the many blankets I’ve crocheted over my shoulders, planting a kiss on my head as he does so.

“Are you all right in here all by yourself? You should come to bed soon.”

I feel the usual flicker of annoyance that he gives me whenever he tries to be concerned and attentive; I am the oldest of five, all girls, and am accustomed to giving the orders and recommendations more than taking them. My mother warned me that this could make my marriage hazardous and unpleasant if I didn’t learn to curb my impulses, but indeed, that’s why I’ve come out here in the first place—to get away from my handsome, wealthy husband who annoys me so frequently with his idle chatter and unsatisfying attempts to care for me. If you really want to help, I want to tell him, you could offer to help me with the household chores once in a while, or take an interest in the house accounts. But these feel like impulsive things to say, the way they rise up inside me and press against the inside of my lips, so instead I say nothing at all. Of course, I know there’s another reason he wants me to come to bed early.

The wedding was a beautiful spectacle, as we rural Ohioans are wont to have. My family, ecstatic that not only was their oldest daughter marrying but marrying well, drank deeply, while George’s family sipped from fluted glasses and looked at my figure, swaying tipsily beneath the layers of white, to reassure themselves that if their son hadn’t married the richest he could, he had, at the very least, married the most beautifully.

My mother did my hair, long and startlingly black, herself, painstakingly organizing the wild curls and swooping it up and around my head like a nest of interconnected crowns. My eyes blazed an eerie blue against my pale, creamy skin, and the effect truly was mesmerizing on our guests; I thought George was going to fall over when I entered the little church and turned at the top of the aisle to begin my walk toward him. Only his little brother seemed unimpressed, already married to an elegant blonde woman whose bright brown eyes followed me curiously long after I’d passed their pew on my walk to the altar. They live just down the street from us now, Mary and Johnathon. The brothers run a successful general store in the middle of our small town, Mt. Vernon, and Mary and I are still settling into co-managing the store when our husbands aren’t there—I’m not used to deferring to another woman (besides my own mother).

The fire crackles on our hearth as I lose myself in these moody thoughts, wrapping the light-blue blanket around my thin figure. I am tired, and I do want to get out of this uncomfortable dress with all its petticoats and heavy layers. I flick my slippers off and play with the material absentmindedly as George sits own in the rocking chair opposite me with a barely audible sigh. I repress my own; maybe if he was half as proactive in bed as he was about trying to get me in it, I would be more eager to go. I upheld the expectation on my end—I was, technically, a virgin on our wedding night. But like any other arrangement, the success of our marriage lies in the technicalities, and my mother has also told me to let him take the lead between the sheets.

“Yes, he chose you, but you also chose him,” she told me sternly the first afternoon we took our afternoon tea together both as married women. “Now you need to either make do with who you have or find another outlet.”

I’d raised my eyebrows at her, shocked. “Mother…”

She’d waved her hand, her still-beautiful face open and warm with honesty for me, her favorite daughter. “Sweetheart, times may change, but some things never do. The world will tell you that there are expectations and boundaries that you must conform to, but really all anyone expects is appearances. Never forget that.” She’d paused and I’d interjected, sarcastically, “So you’re advising me to keep an underground railroad of husbands, per say?” Her eyes flashed green-blue the way they do when she gets passionate about something. “I’m advising you to always remember that women have always relied on an underground community of support to get through a life dictated by men.”

“AnnMARIE.”

I jerk out of my reverie; I have no idea how long George has been trying to get my attention.

“Sorry, dear, what is it?”

“I’m going to bed.” His tone is sulky and irritated, and I rise with him as he goes to leave the room, which takes him by surprise.

“Would you mind helping me out of my dress?” I drop my voice into a low, sexy purr while keeping my eyes cast down demurely. I feel him go rigid beside me with excitement, and allow him to tow me eagerly towards our bedroom with the enormous master bed, and fret and worry at the knots that keep my dress tightly fastened to me until I finally pretend that I can’t wait to have him, I must have him now, and I allow him to take me up my voluminous skirt, lying back on the bed in my clothes like our passion is enough to burn the clothes right off my body. Idly, I wonder what it feels like for him as he’s thrusting in and out of me with an unchanging speed and intensity. He finishes in a predictable burst that makes my breath catch, and then it’s over, and I call our maid to help release me from the dress my husband has made a prison with his fumbling fingers.

Her own dark fingers are deft and clever, loosening the knots within moments, which allows me to take large, expansive breaths of air for the first time since she laced me into the dress this morning. She pats me on the back as she gathers up the dress to take away for cleaning, and I turn to go back to my bed, where George has already fallen asleep. Although it’s still raining, I suddenly think I can make out a strange tapping on the front door. I turn back to the door and instantly know I’m right, something is making a noise amidst the natural thrumming of the rain, because the maid’s face is frozen in a strange of fear and feigned nonchalance.

“Never you mind, Missus,” she murmurs, nodding to the bed. “Aye’ll check thu door n’ lit you knaw if there’s anythun you gotta concern yerself wit.”

But her eyes, dark and luminescent in the lamplight of the bedroom, glow with a barely-contained excitement, and I know there’s something she wants to hide from me, badly. I eye her for a full minute before acquiescing to her wishes, going and laying down on the bed with my husband and pretending to roll over and fall asleep quickly. I hear the door close, imagine her footsteps padding slowly away, and then I sit up and slide back out of bed, my green cotton nightshift whispering along my ankles as I peek through the keyhole in the door to make sure that she’s not waiting to see if I’m still up. I exit the room quickly and close the door softly, so softly, behind me, and creep around the side of the bannister so I have the most direct view of the front door. Even though I’m anticipating something out of the ordinary, I have to quell a gasp of fear when the front door is opened and two young black men are ushered inside. One is clearly a relative; the maid flings her arms around him and covers him with the types of kisses that make teenage boys of all colors squirm and protest. This young man stoically waits, however, and when his mother has finished greeting him, presents his friend, who takes the maid’s hand and murmurs a couple words to her that make her whip around in fear, checking to make sure they are, really, alone. No one sees me crouched in the shadows upstairs, so they relax as she guides them through the room and out, away from the staircase and toward a different part of the house.

Safe in the shadows, I have no illusions about what’s happening; I just wonder for how long it has been operating here under my husband’s nose. Our maid is a relative of one of the many at my brother-in-law’s house…

I know I should go to bed, let this happen and think about it or talk about it with someone later. I have no issues with it; like many Northerners, I believe slavery is wrong. However, it’s not something I’ve ever discussed with my husband, and something warns me that his feelings are much more conservative on this point than I would care to deal with.

I slip downstairs silently, walking by memory in the shadows of the early hours of the night, listening to the footsteps of the little group up ahead and grateful that the rain has slackened to mere background noise by this point. The thick carpeting is damp beneath my feet and I know I’m on the right track; how long have they been in the rain, I wonder. Suddenly, I bump into someone and there’s a shriek that’s quickly cut off. Someone grabs me and roughly pins my arms behind my back, hissing, “It’s a woman!” There’s a pause, a flash of flame, and a candle is held up to my face by the maid. “Missus,” she says slowly. “Please.”

Standing with the little group, I see that the man beside the woman is the one she embraced so lovingly; he must be her son. The one behind me, then, must be the friend. I don’t strain against his grip, and I only look at her. “It’s okay,” I say, quietly, though my heart is hammering and I feel a sharp jolt of disloyalty, to what I don’t know. I know what I believe, I have my convictions, yet the darkness and lateness and threatening grip of the man behind me make me feel uncertain and something else I can’t quite place. When he releases me and moves beside his friend though, I see their eyes rake over me, sharply, and suddenly I’m very aware of the thinness of my cotton shift and the hardness of my rounded, full tits at this most insolent scrutiny from two runaway slaves. I draw myself up to my full height, which barely clears either of their shoulders, and glare at them. The maid cuffs her son and snarls a warning to him that’s universal—yes, she’s beautiful, no, you can’t have her, focus on the problem at hand. And yet, I’m enjoying myself. I grasp her hand briefly as she leads the men away and murmur for her to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, and I feel the men’s surprise even as they walk away from me.

I return to my cool side of the bed, heart aflutter and a strange tightness in my belly, my husband snoring softly beside me. All night, I lie in my bed, looking out the window as the sky lightens through the shades of the morning, filtering in pink and orange with little dust particles swirling in the air. I dress slowly, so that I don’t have to spend much time with George before he’s headed off to the store for the day. I don’t have to be there until lunchtime. I’m determined to meet the men who came into the house so quietly last night, properly. I want to know their stories and where they come from and feel like I’m a part of something bigger than a small town where I’ve already accomplished all I ever will. But the maid is nowhere to be found. She must know I’m looking for her, and though I’m irritated, I can’t help but sympathize with her. Those men were clearly at a loss without the discipline of a mother or woman figure, a tingling sensation goes through me as I remember the way they looked at me so shamelessly through the darkness. I go down into the cellar to begin my search for the men, but as soon as I open the door I realize they’re already down there. Their deep voices cut off as soon as the door opens but I can’t help but bark a laugh at their insolence and stupidity—we seem to be joined in our motives, and I try to push away my mother’s cautionary voice in my head as I descend the stairs, warning me that this goes beyond even what she would condone.

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The Bimbo Wormhole

In the world of science, Ned Green is a towering colossus, one of the best minds of his generation. In the world of dating, however, he’s a complete loser, doomed it seems to a lifetime of celibacy, until one night he makes the scientific breakthrough of a lifetime. Ned unravels the secrets of one of the Universe’s great mysteries, and opens the door to a world of unimaginable pleasure.

Ned Green wandered into his laboratory in the depths of the Moore Research Faculty and walked straight into the door. He was always walking into doors. It had been a regular occurrence: at school, at college, and even in the tiny apartment where he lived a few blocks away from the research facility. It wasn’t that he was stupid, in fact, quite the opposite. He was one of the finest minds of his generation, at least, he was according to Professor Lucius. It’s just that he usually had more important things on his mind than checking whether doors were open.

Sometimes he was thinking about quantum mechanics, or string theory, or the origins of the universe. And sometimes he was thinking about Jenna.

Jenna lived in the next apartment to his. Jenna was taller than him. She was toned, blonde, and utterly gorgeous. She was a fitness instructor and he usually bumped into her when she was setting out for her morning run or coming back from the gym. In fact he had never seen her without lycra clinging to her tight, luscious body.

He only knew that her name was Jenna because he had seen her mail on the shelf in the hallway. Jenna Kuzsinski. So far, he had only managed to say “Hi!” on five occasions. Jenna had not replied. In fact, she had never spoken to him. He had heard her speak, in fact, he had heard her shout, things like, “Oh my God!” and “Yes, yes, yes!” and “Oh fuck yeah, harder, harder!” but that was when she was with her boyfriend and he, Ned, had been kneeling on his bed, with his ear pressed to the bedroom wall.

It’s fair to say that Ned was a little frustrated. That was hardly surprising. At twenty he had told himself there was plenty of time to lose his virginity, and that the right girl would soon come along. Now he was twenty-nine and there was no sign of the right girl turning up. Jenna certainly wasn’t the right girl. She was the wrong girl in every way. Her toned, muscular thighs alone could probably snap him in half. He would still give anything to be naked with her.

Ned wasn’t unattractive. He just wasn’t attractive. More importantly, he had no idea how to talk to girls. None. He was geeky and awkward, gangly and angular. Being thin was better than being overweight, he supposed, although he would have given anything to be a muscled god, just to see how it felt. He’d once tried to lift weights, and had even laid out an elaborate work-out plan. But after half an hour of heaving and pulling and pushing in the college gym he was bored. He didn’t understand how people could use their time like that: hour after hour after hour doing nothing but monotonous movements. Life was too short.

Besides, it wasn’t the body that mattered, it was the personality. Ned had plenty of that, but it was not the kind of personality to which girls were attracted, it was the kind of personality to which multi-billion dollar medical and scientific research corporations were attracted. Admittedly, there were plenty of women in science, but his early experiences with girls had created such a phobia of the opposite sex that sometimes he started to sweat and shake if he was even in the same room as a woman.

Of all those early experiences, there was one in particular that had traumatized him. It happened at party organized at Freefield High School. Someone had smuggled in alcohol and the party ended up a chaotic mess of fighting, crying and at least two school expulsions. He missed most of it. He had turned up, stood inside the school hall, suffered a hail of abuse for being there, for wearing glasses, for being a virgin, and retreated, as he usually did, to the janitor’s room, though not before sneaking out a bottle of beer.

He sat there for an hour or two, sipping the foul tasting beer, thinking that at least he would be going home after dark with the smell of alcohol on his breath. He was shaken from a prolonged daydream by the sudden opening of the door. A girl sprawled across the floor of the janitor’s office. It was Chelsea.

Ah, Chelsea. Chelsea Wolff. The hottest girl in the school. Tanned, lithe, with natural long blonde wavy hair; when Chelsea twisted and gyrated in her lycra cheerleader’s outfit, no-one, not even the players were interested in the football game. And there she was, hauling herself to her feet, her breasts nearly spilling out of her tight black dress, her bare thighs hypnotizing Ned as he sat, speechless.

Frozen though he was, he had managed to stir himself to get up and by hooking her under her arms, pulled her to her feet. Even to this day he could still sense her intoxicating fruity perfume, mingling with vodka fumes.

She struggled in his arms, and tried to turn round as he was attempting to help her to a seat at the desk in the janitor’s office. For one glorious moment, he was holding her, her breasts crushed against him, her lips allowing her soft breath to escape onto his cheek. He genuinely thought that she was about to kiss him. And then she vomited all over him.

She staggered backwards, pointed at him and roared with laughter, called him a loser, and walked, unsteadily, out of the janitor’s office.

That was just one of a string of minor humiliations and setbacks that convinced him that there was no way he would ever be with a woman, and that he had better get used to it. His problem was compounded by the fact that his taste in women was ridiculously unrealistic. To put it bluntly, he was attracted to bimbos. Blonde, dizzy, big-breasted women: goddesses who would never in a million years even look in his direction, unless it was to vomit over him. He didn’t want to be with any other kind of woman, but had no chance of ever dating someone he was attracted to. Yes, Chelsea had screwed him up badly.

So instead, he had poured his frustrations into science. Science had always been his friend. In the world of science he was not a loser. In fact, he was a giant. He had graduated with honors, sailed through his post-graduate work and was now working as a researcher for the Moore Corporation – a conglomerate that was busily buying up all the most innovative tech companies on the planet, while recruiting the best and brightest talent.

Ned was officially working on quantum computing for a big commercial contract, but in the evening he used the laboratory facilities to conduct his own experiments. The director of the facility, Professor Lucius, gave him plenty of latitude as long as he completed his work to the required specifications, which Ned always did.

His current spare time activity was wormholes. Ned subscribed to the theory that an infinite number of alternate dimensions existed. He was certain of it. It was the only explanation that made sense, which threaded everything mankind had discovered about the Universe together. According to Ned’s theory, every choice we made created another alternate dimension, in which the opposite choice was played out. He was also convinced that it would be possible to travel from one dimension to another.

That was what he was working on the night he made his breakthrough.

It happened suddenly. He had been tinkering with the capacitor housing and trying to find different methods to launch the wormhole initiator without overloading the system, when he accidentally transposed the wrong circuit.

A flash of light blazed through the laboratory, throwing Ned to the floor. When he stood, he saw a perfect circle of darkness, ringed with white and purple light, hovering in the middle of the laboratory. He approached it cautiously, walking around it. It wasn’t a projection, or an illusion. It was real.

He stretched out a finger and watched as his fingertip disappeared into the blackness. He pulled it out again quickly. Could this be it, he wondered. Was this the wormhole? Had he really done it?

This was the moment he had been preparing for. The big decision. Did he take the risk and step into the wormhole or did he sit back and let the moment pass? He shook his head. What did he have to lose?

Cautiously, he stepped forward, lifting his foot and putting into the hole. It disappeared, and he could feel a force, a sucking that was pulling him in. He lifted up his other foot to step fully into the hole and instantly felt darkness close around him. Everything was completely pitch black and he felt a horrible lurching in his stomach. He felt weightless, as though he was drifting in space. And then, he realized that the darkness was tangible. It was hard, wooden. He stretched out with his arms and a rectangle of light broke through the dark.

He was in the wardrobe of his apartment.

Stepping out, he looked around. Everything was as it had been when he left that morning. The Spiderman poster. The collection of unwashed mugs. The scattered clothes. Tentatively, he walked through his apartment, opened the door and stood in the corridor. There was nothing at all unusual about it.

That was when he heard footsteps on the creaking stairs.

It was Jenna. She was coming back from the gym. He turned to go back into his apartment, to hide. The door wouldn’t open. He had locked himself out.

Left with no choice, he stood, leaning on the door, trying not to shake too much as Jenna approached. She wore a tight white sports top and tiny black lycra shorts. Her thighs glistened a little in the light of the corridor, and her face was flushed. She glanced at him, briefly, then unlocked her apartment door.

As she put the key in the lock, Ned remembered. Of course. He kept a spare key under the carpet outside the apartment. He clicked his fingers, a habit of his, usually reserved for moments of realization and enlightenment. He bent down, pulled back the carpet and took the silver key. When he rose to his feet he realized that Jenna was standing in front of him.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. She was standing closer to him than any woman had ever stood. He stammered something that sounded like ‘Hi,” but he couldn’t be sure.

“Do you want to come in for a coffee?”

Ned wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder and looked at him, biting her lip.

“Er, no thanks, I’ve already had coffee,” he blurted. He scrambled with the key in the lock, opened his apartment door and hurried inside.

“What the hell was that?” he muttered. “And why didn’t I say yes?”

His heart still pounding, he looked around the room. None of this made sense. Had he really travelled to another dimension? He opened the wardrobe. There, he could make out the purple and white ring through which he had stepped. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the wardrobe. A second later he was standing in the laboratory.

“It worked!” he said out loud, clicking his fingers.

He had so many questions. Nothing in the alternate dimension seemed different. So which dimension was it? Obviously, one where he had made many of the same decisions as this one. That would explain the apartment, and Jenna living next door. Although it didn’t explain why she said hello to him, or why she invited him in for coffee.

Maybe he was more attractive in the other dimension?

He took another deep breath. He had to explore more. He needed more evidence. He stepped into the black ring and closed his eyes.

This time the wardrobe door was already open. He stepped out of it, into the apartment and as he was adjusting to his surroundings, heard a knock at the door. He quickly closed the wardrobe and walked over to open his apartment door. It was Jenna.

She was wearing a ridiculously tight red off-shoulder dress that revealed most of her tanned, gorgeous thighs.

“Hi,” she said, breathlessly. “Can I come in?”

Ned panicked.

“No, sorry. I, I, I’m busy at the moment.”

He closed the door.

Standing with his back against the door, he closed his eyes. You idiot! Why did you say no? But, more importantly, what the hell was going on. He walked over to the mirror, half expecting to see a muscled athlete. But no, he was exactly the same: tall, gawky and pale.

What was going on? He tried to retrace his steps, looking for clues. What was different? Initially Jenna hadn’t been interested in him. That was normal. Then she changed.

Something dawned on Ned.

Years ago, at the height of his sexual desperation, he had read a book on hypnosis. It was a highly dubious book, suggesting that you could hypnotize women into falling in love with you. Ned had thrown the book away as it was unethical, creepy and worst of all, didn’t even work. But he remembered that the author had suggested that once a woman had been hypnotized, it was important to have a trigger that could bring about the state of hypnosis at the whim of the hypnotist. The author had suggested a finger click.

Taking another deep breath, he stepped out of the apartment and knocked on Jenna’s door. Within two seconds, she opened it. She was still wearing the red dress and seemed delighted to see him, smiling broadly.

Nervously, he lifted up his fingers and clicked them.

Instantly, Jenna stopped smiling. She frowned, and then reached down as though to cover her legs.

“What do you want?” she said, aggressively.

Ned clicked his fingers again.

Her expression softened.

“Hey. Do you want to come in?”

Ned’s heart was pounding. He nodded. Almost instantly, Jenna grabbed him by his laboratory coat and pulled him inside. In her apartment, she pressed her body right up against him, crushing her breasts into his chest.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said, breathlessly.

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Casting Julia – A Two Book Series

This is an excerpt from book one of Casting Julia

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known that I was going to be an actress. In nearly all of the pictures my mother has framed of me in our little ranch house, I’m in the middle of delivering my lines. Looking at the pictures, I don’t really remember myself as a child; I remember the characters I played and think about what I would do differently if I were to be cast as them now.

There’s me as the Good Witch of the South in sixth grade when we did The Wizard of Oz, standing on a platform that had shuddered and shook every time I’d stepped onto it. Me as the Fairy Godmother in third grade when we put on Cinderella. My first lead, as Snow White freshman year, when I beat out all the upperclassmen. That was a weird one; there had been problems with the legalities of putting on the play and instead they’d modernized the storyline and changed the plot. I got to throw an apple at my arch nemesis every day for weeks during rehearsal, so I was really okay with it.

“Julia?”

My mother walks into the room and takes in the scene, me hanging upside down off the edge of our faded green couch, long legs hooked over the top, short denim summer skirt riding up around my waist, hair glowing fiery red in the sunlight filtering through the front window.

“Yeah?”

She eyes my wanton position on the couch for a moment before speaking. I roll my eyes at her.

“I’m just running to the store for a few things, do you need anything?”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” I say, sitting up and feeling the blood rush from my face.

“What are you going to do today?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I sigh, sinking back onto the couch in a pile of long, pale limbs. “There’s an audition in the city for a new crime T.V. series, I was thinking of maybe checking that out.”

“Do you want me to take you?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll get it,” I say, carefully avoiding her eye. “And it’s just a small part, so I can go when you get back.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

The front door opens and closes and then I’m alone in the house. Well, mostly. Our fluffy gray cat, Minnie, jumps up on my lap and rubs her face against my hand. I stroke her soft fur absentmindedly, watching Mom drive away in the minivan leftover from her marriage and dreams of a big family.

I get up from the couch and place Minnie on the warm impression left by my firm, little butt. She curls up happily and doesn’t think twice as I pad upstairs and begin to get my bag together for this audition that I’ve lied about so carefully to my mother.

First of all, I’ve already auditioned, and they’ve chosen me. Second, it’s not a small part. I’ll be playing the romantic interest to the boss of a big-time crime organization. The only caveat is the role itself—I’ve played shy girls before, and identify as an introvert, so that’s not a problem. The problem is that my romantic interest is into BDSM and I’m his “sub.” There’s no reason to feel guilty, I tell myself sternly as I go upstairs. You’re eighteen, and this is what comes with adult roles. Time to do your research. In my room, painted a soft lavender and covered with proof that I did indeed have a happy childhood despite also having a dad who ran out on me, I gather up the materials that I’ve been told I’ll need to become familiar with. A whip, harsh metal handcuffs. Fluffy pink handcuffs. Fluffy navy-blue handcuffs. A rather frightening-looking chain. A fake-wooden plastic stick. Black lingerie. All of this goes into my backpack and is carefully covered by a sweatshirt and script from another audition, in case Mom sees the inside of the bag for any reason. I’m dressed unassumingly in simple jean shorts and a black T-shirt, both of which emphasize the pearly paleness of my skin and blaze of red that is my hair. My disproportionately-large tits strain against the soft fabric of my T-shirt, brushing together softly as I pace impatiently, waiting for Mom to get back.

I check the address I’m looking for one more time on my phone. The message is from someone named Jacqueline who is a practicing female-dom. I found her on Craigslist, offering classes in exchange for a fee and the promise of mentioning her to other aspiring doms. I told her I need someone to teach me to be a “Sub” and she laughed, her rough voice crackling over the phone.

“Good, that seems like it will be naturally easier for you.”

I’m still not sure if I should feel offended.

The front door opens, and I take a deep breath, gathering up my backpack carefully before heading downstairs.

“Heading out?” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek as I nod. “All right, drive safe.”

In the car, I put my hair back into a simple ponytail and put on my black sunglasses. It’s a beautiful summer day and feels really strange to be following an unknown route to an unknown house, and as I get closer I get more and more nervous.

The house doesn’t look anything like I was expecting; it looks normal. Blue with white trim. Trees in the yard, lawn recently mown. I park and walk up to the door, knock hesitantly. A completely-normal looking woman answers the door. She’s in her thirties, with long, dirty-blonde hair, and sharp green eyes that appraise me casually as she invites me in.

“Nice to meet you, Heather.”

We sit in her living room, she in a simple red summer dress and me in my girl’s summer uniform. She pours me tea and hands me a cup before settling back herself.

“So, what do you want to know?”

“Ex-excuse me?” Nothing about this is beginning the way I expected. I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected, but it wasn’t drinking tea in a random woman’s home with a backpack full of miscellaneous sex items sitting quietly at my feet. Jacqueline smiles patiently.

“Darling, I knew right when you walked in that you’re the type of girl who needs a lot of lead up to the main event. You’re an actress, right? Probably takes you absolutely forever to memorize lines, but man, when you’ve got them, you’ve got them?”

My mouth falls open. How did she know, just from meeting me two minutes ago, that that’s exactly the type of actress I am? I’ve been told over and over that it will be the making or breaking of me, but never have I had anyone assess that side of me so quickly and so casually.

She smiles at my response. “First lesson: part of being a good partner in BDSM, whether it’s as a dom or a sub, is being able to read your partner, and quickly. For the record,” she added, casting her eyes over my body, “I think this director was right to cast you. You have all the equipment to be a great sub. Crime show, big bad boss side story, right?”

I nod, and finally find my voice. “I’ve played roles alongside men before, I just don’t know, exactly…” I break off and rummage in my backpack abruptly, pulling out the real script from the bottom and handing it to her so she can see a section I’ve highlighted. “How do I act this out, the right way?”

She scans the lines, brow furrowed. “You’ve had sex, right?”

“Yeah…”

She looks up at me, sharply. “But not much?”

I drop my gaze, unable to meet her tawny eyes.

“Ooookay. Well.” She rises and go to a bookshelf, but instead of books, I now see there’s tons and tons of DVDs. She withdraws six or seven and turns back to me.

“Homework for tonight.”

“We haven’t even had a lesson today!” The words spring out of my mouth before I can stop them, and she laughs outright.

“Careful dear, that’s a dom attitude right there.”

She rearranges herself back on the chair with her tea and sips contentedly.

“Before you’ll understand anything I have to teach you, you need to understand the different angles of sex. Or at least be exposed to them. Come back here tomorrow night, at eleven. Your first day shooting isn’t until Monday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. See you later, then.”

Somehow, she’s dismissed me without moving an inch. I rise uncertainly, pull out my wallet. She waves it away. “I’m more interested in you as a project at the moment. Don’t worry about that for now.”

Want more?  Grab a copy on Amazon

Want even more?  Grab book two HERE

No Publish No Problem

I decided not to publish any stories in the month of August.  This doesn’t mean I have stopped writing.

I did this for a two reasons.

  1. August sales were getting off to a slow start
  2. I wanted a few books “in the chamber” for when I started publishing again in September.

By having a few books in the chamber I have the liberty to take a week off if necessary during the next couple of months.  It just made sense to hoard a few stories for the month of August since this is generally one of the worse selling months for self publishing author’s, and these books are better served being released during busy months.

The funny thing is, sales have gone up since I made this decision.  I haven’t released a single book, yet my sales are on track to beat July.  Of course by saying this I probably just jinxed myself, but oh well.  It’s still good to know I can leave the self publishing game alone at times and still bring in sales.

How To Constantly Come Up With New Erotica Stories

To be successful writing erotica you need to find the right niche & write original stories.

Generic stories about the plain jane capturing the heart of the alpha millionaire, biker, jock etc.  has been done to death.  They may still work for romance novels, but not erotica.

Erotica readers want specific sexual kinks and a half decent story that hasn’t been rehashed a thousands times over.

How does one continuously come up with original stories?

  1.  Take a walk through you’re city/town:  Stories are everywhere you just have to look for them.  Take notice of you’re environment.  Maybe the abandoned warehouse you pass on the street is meeting place for a sex cult.  Maybe the couple in the cafe are debating whether they should go to the swingers party they we’re invited to.  Let your imagination run wild.  You’ll never people watch the same way again.
  2. Mix Match List:  This is my personal go to when I’m having trouble coming up with a new story.  I take a sheet of paper and divide it into four columns – kink/sex act, setting, character, and emotion.  Underneath each column I write 10-15 words.  After I feel I have enough words under each column I mix and match the words so I have a total random combination of kink/sex act, setting, character, and emotion.  I use the combination of the four words and try to base a story around it.  This usually gives me some interesting results and plot lines I have never seen done before.  This exercise takes all of 5 minutes.

Just remember, erotica readers want something they haven’t read before.  Yes, erotica is first and foremost about the sex, but that doesn’t mean readers don’t want a little plot with their porn.

Most erotic authors fail because they try to copy a story that has gained popularity.  The problem with this is a number of others erotic authors are doing the same thing, trying to cash in on the flavor of the month.  By being original, you will stand out from the pack.

 

 

“200 Crappy Words A Day” (More Advice To Aspiring Erotic Authors)

“200 crappy words a day.”  I don’t who said it, but I’ve seen this quote floating around the interweb on a few occasions.

Why 200?

The idea is that if the person set a small easy goal like “200 crappy words a day” than it would build momentum.

Writing a 1000 words a day seems daunting.  So daunting, that the person may never even attempt to try.  But “200 crappy words” is more than manageable.  After all, they don’t even have to be good words.

When you first start writing resistance will hit you like a ton of bricks.  You have all these great ideas,  all these things you want to write about.  You can even imagine your bank account growing as people buy copy after copy of your short stories.

But now it comes time to actually write.  You sit down and all those great ideas fade away.  You try to type but words won’t flow.  You think to yourself how am I ever going to write my first short if I can’t even muster up one measly paragraph?

You become discouraged.  Distracted.  Maybe if I just do something else I’ll get a creative spark.  The cursor blinks on an empty page.  You haven’t written a thing.

You may be thinking how do I know all this?

It’s because your problem is not unique.  It happens to every writer.  It happens to me.  It probably even happened to Ernest fucking Hemingway.

This is called resistance, and it’s something that every writer will continually have to conquer.

When you first start writing resistance is particularly strong.  I remember when I first started writing even penning “200 crappy words” was difficult.  However, if I was able to push on I would gain momentum.

Maybe the next writing session I was able to pen 500.  A week later I could write 1000.  A crappy 1000, but still 1000.

It took me three days to write my first erotic short and it was barely 3,000 words long, and it sucked.  Two months later I was finishing a 3k short in a day.  A year later I was cranking out 5-6 short stories a week with ease.

Then again there are still days when I write that I feel like an armless, legless person with a crayon in my mouth.

I push on.  I set small word count goals.  If I don’t feel like writing I’ll just trick myself into it.  Just sit down and write 200 words I tell myself.  Those 200 words usually turn into much more.  I gain momentum.

This is how you should approach writing when you’re first starting out or even if you’re a seasoned vet.  You need to trick yourself into it.  Just remember “200 crappy words.”  If that’s too daunting make it 100.  Hell, make it 50.  Just get your ass in the seat and start typing.   50 words may not seem like much but it adds up.  If you sat down and typed just 50 words each day you would have an 18,250 word novella by the end of year.

Start off small.  Build momentum.  Don’t make unattainable goals for yourself.  Don’t think you need to write 5-6 shorts per week.  This type of thinking will crush you in the beginning, resistance will get stronger and you’ll give up before you even start.

Always remember, “200 crappy words per day.”

 

Keep A Few Books In The Chamber

I was optimistic with the way August started.  The first two days sales were good.  Since that point sales have slowed to a crawl.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.  Last August was the same thing.  It was one of the my worst months in terms of sales even though it was one of my most productive months in terms of writing.

Note to self:  Let August be a month to coast a little.  For the rest of August I will not release another book or bundle.  I may promote a few of my older titles for free.  I will continue writing, but not as much.  My goals is to have a few books in the chamber for when I start writing full time again in September.

It’s always good to have a few books in the chamber if things get hectic one week.  This means you can still release books even if you weren’t able to get anything done that week.

Sales should pick up again in September, and it should only go up from there *knocks on wood.*  Maybe August is good time to ease back and let the creative mind rest before I start cranking out stories again in the fall & winter.  For the next couple months I won’t have the opportunity to take it easy so it’s best to slack off now when potential readers are enjoying the end of summer instead of short story smut.

6 Ways To Become A More Productive Erotic Author

When writing erotica you don’t want anything to hinder your volume. The key to success for a no name self published erotic author is VOLUME.

Remember you’re not writing the next great American novel.  You’re writing short stories to get people off.  Usually these stories will be in the 3,000-5,000 word range.

If your serious about making money with erotica you should treat it like a business.  This means setting aside time to write, whether you feel like it or not.  You should value this time.  It’s a time for writing and writing only.

Of course, this is easier said than done.  Distractions pop up.  Phone calls, twitter feeds, and noisy roommates can kill productivity.  It’s important that distractions like these are nipped in the bud.  Here are a few ways to eliminate distractions and become a more productive erotic author:

1. Pomodoro Technique:  Set your writing time into twenty five minute blocks with 5 minute rest periods. After you have completed 4 twenty five minute blocks take an extended break of fifteen minute, and repeat.

I like the Pomodoro Technique because it helps you get into a rhythm while preventing burnout.  The twenty five minute blocks help build momentum.  You may only be able to get 200 words during the first block, but by the forth block you will be writing 500 plus words easily.  The words will begin to flow.  The 5 minute breaks are a good time to stretch, and aren’t long enough for you to get distracted by something else.

Need a Pomodoro timer?  There are many apps for that.

2.  Outline:  You don’t have to write a detailed rough draft for erotica, but it does help to have some semblance of an outline.

Write out the general plot, characters, setting, and any other research beforehand. Nothing breaks up the flow of writing like researching to make sure minor details are accurate.

3.  Edit Later:  I have to admit I don’t always follow this advice myself.  For some reason I feel the need to edit after every sentence.

When writing you’re aiming for uninterrupted streams of consciousness.  Some may call this flow state.  It’s where the magic happens.

Going back to look up the perfect word or correct grammatical errors will kill flow. When you write, just write.  Stop trying to be perfect.  You can edit it later.

4.  Block The Interweb: I don’t know about you, but I’m easily distracted and thrown off course.  I may tell myself I’m going to check my mail real quick, but two hours later I’m looking at Facebook pictures of someone I barely knew in high school.

If you’re like me, you shouldn’t even give yourself the option to get distracted.  Block the internet before it becomes a blackhole.  I use an extension called StayFocused.   This extension allows you to block “problem” websites for extended periods of time.

5.  Block Your Phone Too:  Don’t forget your phone too.  Put it on airplane mode.  Better yet, turn it off.

Phone calls and texts are another needless distraction.  Let’s face it, no one really needs to get in touch with you that bad.

6.  Work Space:  This isn’t necessary but it’s something to consider.  Your living space may be the perfect spot for you to work, but for some it’s just another distraction.  Noisy roommates, annoying partners, or little children can put a damper on writing time.

You may find it useful to rent a small studio space.  Usually you can find a decent spot for pretty cheap.  I was able to find a studio in a co working space for $105 a month.

Conclusion 

Being successful in erotica, or any genre, is about carving time out of each day to write, and defending that time against your own self sabotage.

P.S.  If you’re interested in becoming a more productive writer I suggest grabbing a copy of Steven Pressfield’s War of Art.  It’s the bible when it comes to breaking past creative hurdles and getting shit done.

If you’re interested in learning ways to succeed as an erotic author grab a copy of my book Confessions of an Erotic Author:  How to Write Smut That Sells

Advice To Aspiring Erotic Author

You should view your first 20 books as an experiment.

Don’t worry about choosing the perfect pen name.  Don’t bother setting up an author’s profile, a twitter account, blog etc.  You should focus on writing and writing only.  And don’t just write the stories you want to write either.  You should write in as many genres as possible.

Find Your Niche

Making money as an erotic author is a balance between writing original stories but also finding a niche that works for you.

If your thinking about starting a career writing erotica I suggest you go to Amazon’s Erotica’s Best Seller’s List, especially the URBAN section.  Take a look and see what some of the popular niches are.  Start writing in those niches.  Write a cuckolding, BDSM, or shifter story.  Explore some of the more obscures niches like femdom.  Combine different niches to together.

Eventually, you will find a niche that works for you.  This may take you 5 stories it may take you 30.  You’ll know you found it when your sales  increase dramatically.

Once you find it run with it.  Now you can set up a main pen name, author’s page, and mailing list if you wish. You can use your main pen name to publish stories in your niche and use your first pen name to test of stories until you find another profitable niche.

Be Original

Being original.  I can’t stress that enough.  Don’t be the hack that rewrites a popular story in your own words.  The story of the sadistic dominant millionaire who takes interest in the shy mousy girl has been done to death.  After E.L. James’ success with 50 Shades Of Gray, hundreds of erotic authors wrote the same story in their own words.  It may have worked for some, but eventually the market becomes saturated with millionaire stories.

Don’t jump on the bandwagon.  When you try to recreate the success of another author you will always be a few steps behind.  Not only will you be competing with original author for sales, but hundreds of other bandwagon authors.

Conclusion

When starting out in erotica don’t worry about sales.  Just write.  Write in as many different genres as possible.  Try new things.  Eventually you will find things that work.

The formula for success in erotica is:  right niche + original story = lots of sales.

P.S.  If you would like to learn more about writing erotica that sells I suggest grabbing a copy of Confessions Of An Erotic Author: How To Write Smut That Sells.

I wrote this guide a few months back under the pen name Adriana Dogood.

 

 

Full Body Search (Forced Lesbian Submission)

Ally has everything a girl could want: money, beauty and a fabulous modeling career. But something is missing.

Her life as a model leaves her unfulfilled and desperate until one day she makes a reckless, fateful decision that will threaten her freedom and put her at the mercy of a beautiful Greek customs official called Adriana.

Excerpt from Full Body Search:

My name is Ally, and I’m a model. It really isn’t as glamorous as you might think. Sure there are the ten to twelve foreign trips a year, the fabulous clothes, and the occasional thrill of seeing yourself on the front cover of a magazine or in a perfume advert or on a bill board posing in a pair of sunglasses. I mean, that can be fun, if you like that sort of thing.

But it has its downside. For a start, you have to meet some of the world’s most awful people. I mean, seriously unpleasant individuals, from the leering, groping photographer who always wants you to show more flesh, to the utterly amoral publicists, bookers and promoters who treat you like a princess one moment, and then trash you the next.

To be honest, very few people I’ve met in the modeling business are the sort of people you would want to introduce to your family.

Speaking of my family, they think I’m living the high life. They’re happy for me, of course, but they’re jealous too, particularly my sister-in-law, who is always making snarky remarks about my privileged life. Yes, sure, I’m always tanned, toned and immaculately dressed, but that’s my job. They don’t see the nights when I can’t sleep for hunger, the times I throw up from having done too many crunches, and they don’t understand the anxiety of constantly worrying about your appearance, knowing that any decline, any sign of aging or weakness could be the beginning of the end of your livelihood.   

My mother is thrilled that I’m a model. It’s the culmination of her life’s work. She always told me I was pretty, which was great for my self-esteem. In fact, all through school I suffered with what you could politely call an excess of self-esteem. I was a brat, if you will, or a bitch, if you like. The most beautiful girl in school? Maybe. The most hated girl in school? Definitely. My mother would tell me that the other kids were just jealous. Maybe they were, but that didn’t make me feel better, and it didn’t make up for not having real friends. I hung around with a lot of beautiful people, went to a lot of parties, but none of them were friends.

What I really wanted to do was paint. I loved painting. I loved the way the oil paint felt as I eased it onto the canvas. When I was painting, no matter what I was painting, I would feel truly free. Hours would go by with just me and my paints and a canvas. Nothing fulfilled me more than painting. I would spend my summers and all my holidays painting, that was at least when I wasn’t being packed off to pageant practice or cheerleader camp. My first holiday back after leaving home, I found that not only had my mother redecorated my room, she’d thrown out all of my paintings. She seemed genuinely puzzled when I complained.

“But sweetie, you’re a model now,” she said. Yes, I was a model. I was also miserable and lonely. I’d started smoking. I was rude to most people I met. And I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Modeling is boring. It’s hard, repetitive and boring. That’s why I suppose I was open to suggestion, to distraction, to being tempted into doing something really, really stupid.

We’ve all done stupid things. Come on, I’m sure you have. My stupid thing, my really, really stupid thing, happened in Greece. I had flown out there for a modeling shoot, which was cancelled when the magazine that was paying for it went bust. So there I was, sitting in my hotel, working out whether I had enough money to get back home. My agent had made himself unavailable, as he always did when I needed real help. I was sitting in the hotel bar, planning on getting blind drunk as an alternative to coming up with a proper plan, when one of the staff at the hotel took the seat next to me.

I was pretty sure at the time that she was a lesbian. She was pretty, no doubt, with long dark straight air, a gorgeous complexion and a tight, slender, almost frail physique. She had been flirting with me a little, at breakfast, and whenever I went to the reception desk. She was wasting her time. I thought I had a very firm idea about that kind of thing. In fact, a girl once tried to kiss me at a party, and I spent the next week telling everyone in school that she was a lesbian. I was sure that lesbians were disgusting. I mean, who would want to be touched by another girl. Touched there. It was just, well, wrong.

But on this particular night, the girl in the hotel didn’t want to flirt with me. She had a proposition. She was willing to offer me ten thousand dollars to take a package through customs. Of course, that was never the sort of thing you should do. Obviously you say no, right? Sensible Ally, painter Ally would not have said yes. But bitchy, unhappy, lonely Ally, assisted by two and a half shots of vodka, said yes. That same night, the package, and half the money was waiting for me on my hotel bed when I crawled back to my room.

The next day, I couldn’t find the girl anywhere in the hotel. I thought about just leaving the package and the money there, but then I needed the money. I had to buy a ticket home. So, hungover, wilting in the heat, and just desperate to get back to New York, I put the package in my suitcase, stuffed the money into my purse and headed for the airport.

Soon I was standing in the long, winding queue for the check-in desk. I’d bought myself a new sun hat with some of the money and a lovely beaded bangle, but the thrill of shopping had quickly burnt away in the Greek sun and now I was tired, hot and having serious second thoughts about the decision I’d made.

The queue in front of me was moving slowly. There were bored looking couples lining up to return to normality, harassed single parents struggling to cope with their screaming children, and a smattering of locals and businessmen. It was warm, really warm, and the air conditioners were losing the battler to keep the hall temperature at a tolerable level.

I was grateful that I had decided not to wear the little jacket I’d bought at the boutique that morning. I wore a peach-toned crop top and a floral, wrap-around skirt in a cool, light material, and my decision not to wear a bra was also a good one. I was slightly concerned that the outline of my nipples was visible through the thin material of the top, but I had bigger things to worry about: specifically, the package in my suitcase. Several times I had considered ducking out of the line, going back to the hotel or outside and throwing it into the nearest bin. But there were several things wrong with this plan. The people who gave me the package would presumably not be happy if I ditched it. I’d also spent some of their money and wouldn’t immediately be able to pay it back, which I assumed would also not go down well.

The line inched forward and I was torn between impatience to get onto the flight and away, and a desire for the line never to reach the check-in desk. That moment came, soon enough, by which point my panic was clearly visible in my face and my wavering voice.

The man at the check-in looked me over slowly. I was used to that. Men had been doing that to me for as long as I could remember. Usually I would scowl or make a sharp remark. This time I tried to assemble my face into a smile. He took my passport, studied it, showed it to his co-worker, shrugged and then handed it back to me, indicating with a nod of his head and a kind of grunt, that I should put my luggage on the check-in ramp. My hand shaking, I lifted up the designer handbag with the regal pattern and the polished handles. The conveyor belt began to trundle and the bag slid into the dark interior.

Well, it was too late now. I wandered away from the check-in, clutching my boarding pass and passport, feeling sick. I sat a little way off, looking at the flight arrivals and departures board, wondering if it was too late to make a run for it. But where would I run to? What would I do next? I ran through several increasingly elaborate scenarios in which I could get rid of the package, give back the money and safely return to New York, and was in the middle of one involving the American embassy and the United Nations when I was interrupted.

“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?”

I looked up. A customs officer in a crisp white uniform was standing over me.

“Yes?”

“There has been a problem. Come with me, please.”

Panic struck me. I looked wildly around. There were the exits. Maybe I could run for it. Then I remembered the four inch designer sandals I was wearing. Neither I nor the sandals were built for running. I could sashay to the exits, I could walk elegantly to the exits, but run to the exits? I would probably fall flat on my face, like I did that one time on the catwalk in Budapest.

So I followed him meekly, through the departure lounge, through a cordoned off area, through a white door and along a white corridor. He stopped to knock on a door, and hearing a muffled reply, opened it, and beckoned me to enter.

Inside the room was a table, at which sat a man and a woman, both in the white uniform of the airport. Off to one side, I noticed my suitcase. I could feel my heart racing. How could I have been so stupid? Just one moment’s drunken weakness, a stupid decision, and now I was about to be arrested in Greece. What would happen to me? What would my agent say? What would my mother say?

The woman officer beckoned to the man beside her to leave the room, which he did. She beckoned me forwards and then spoke in perfect English, but with a strong accent:

“I need to inspect your hand luggage.”

With shaking hands I placed my Christian Dior travel bag onto the table. I watched as she unzipped it and began to search. Her name, according to her airport badge, was Adriana. Despite my rising terror, I couldn’t help noticing that she was extremely attractive. It was instinctive. Most of my life I’d been comparing myself to other girls, other women, scrutinizing the opposition. I couldn’t help it. Adriana was stunning. She had a sporty physique, and her deep blue eyes were framed by high cheek bones and shoulder-length cascades of dark, wavy hair. Her lips were impossibly full, but entirely natural, as was her deep, rich tan.

My bag was pulled wide open. I watched her search through my things, examining them. She fingered my purse, checked my driver’s ID, counted the notes and change. She lingered on the perfume, the deodorant and the compact. I started to blush as I remembered what else was in there. She lifted up a delicate, lacy black thong, twirling it a little on her gloved finger before replacing it. Then she smiled a little as she slid a slim, purple vibrator from the bag. I flushed. I had packed in a hurry, and had only found that when I had already zipped up the suitcase, so had stuffed it into my travel bag along with the…I flushed again as I remembered what else I’d stuffed in there. The anal beads I’d ordered online! She held them up and smiled at me again. I felt a little anger rising in me. What was this? So I wanted to experiment a little? It’s not a crime! But I didn’t say anything, and soon she had finished with the bag search.

“Now, Miss Johnson, I am afraid that this is really boring, but we need to do a full body search. It is necessary, and won’t take long.”

“A body search?” The idea terrified me.

“Yes, it is routine.”

Routine? Could it be that this was just a routine inspection? A practice? I glanced over at my suitcase. Surely they would have found the package? Maybe not though. I thought I’d chance my luck and try to bluff my way out of it.

“I really don’t see why I should have to submit to a body search. I haven’t done anything wrong.” This didn’t seem to have any effect on Adriana. “I’m an American citizen,” I said, as though that was important.

“It really will not take long,” she assured me. I sighed. Perhaps I would get some credit for co-operating.

”Fine,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Let’s get it over with.”

She twisted her lips into what seemed to me to be more of a smirk than a smile.

“Can you please just step into that room?”

She indicated a door at the back of the room. I click-clacked across the polished floor to the door and opened it. Inside was a high, padded leather bench. There were various notices and signs in Greek on the wall and a desk to the right. To the left there was what appeared to be a toilet cubicle and a shower. It looked like a cross between a doctor’s consulting room and a prison cell.

“Please wait here,” said Adriana, closing the door behind her. I sat on the bench, looking around me glumly. I could hear voices outside, then the voices stopped, a door closed and I could hear what sounded like a key turning in a lock.

Adriana came back into the room. She walked over to one side, unfastened her jacket and hung it on a peg on the wall. She turned to me and smiled and I couldn’t help noticing how the round of her breasts bulged against the turquoise material of her shirt. They must have been 38D at least. If they were her own, they were mightily impressive.

“Stand up please,” she said, coming close to me.

I slipped off the bench and stood there. In that instant, it reminded me of being in the nurse’s office at school, preparing for yet another examination.

She stood so close that I could smell her perfume, a fusion of lilac and lilies and something more exotic, something that was redolent of citrus fruits and berries. I closed my eyes as she patted me down. She was a lot gentler than I expected, certainly a lot gentler than that TSA guard who did the same thing at JFK six months earlier. In fact, as she bent down to pat my legs, it seemed to me that Adriana was almost lingering on my thighs.

“Turn around,” she said, and I did. I felt her feeling my calves, my knees, my thighs, and the round of my butt. I felt her hands on my back, and then, around my stomach and up, over my breasts. I closed my eyes as I realized she would find I was bra-less. Her latex-covered palm brushed lightly over my right nipple and I shivered a little, involuntarily.

“Thank you, Miss Johnson, you may turn around now.”

“Is that it?”

“Not quite. You will now please take off your clothes.” Her voice had a hard edge to it this time, and her smile had gone.

“No way,” I said, raising my voice instinctively. “No freaking way am I getting naked for you. What do you think this is? I want to speak to an attorney. I want to speak to the Embassy. You have no right to do this. I am an American.”

Yes, one thing that I was good at, aside from looking nonchalant in lingerie, was throwing a tantrum. I had been doing it since I was a toddler, and twenty years of practice meant I had gotten really good at it. My tantrums almost always led to me getting my way.

Unfortunately, it did not seem to have that effect on Adriana. She stepped forward, close to me and grabbed my face with her gloved hand, squeezing my cheeks. I was so shocked I couldn’t breath. Her face was close to mine and I could feel the warmth of her breath.

“Listen, American whore, there is no attorney for you. Do as you are told.”

“You can’t tell me what to do” I said, my voice all wavery and weak.

“Oh no? Really? And what about the kilo of cocaine we found in your luggage. Do you think that gives me the right to tell you what to do?”

Want More?  Grab a Copy on Amazon